The Argosy — page 53: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Letters from Majorca. 43 no difference. When you have reached a certain depth, you may as well go lower still, and so be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Again the loveliest, sunniest weather. From outside the town, Manacor looked imposing. To the left, a long row of windmills gave their character to the landscape. One of them was close at | hand, and from the upper part of the stone-work we took a photograph of the town, that, church-crowned, rose on gentle heights. Ploughed fields lay between it and us, bare and naked, but later on to be clad with the verdure of vines or cereals. Distant hills bounded the plain. Our road lay away from these, towards Arta and the sea coast. A portion of the drive took us through long stretches of what looked like plantations of young trees. Once we came to a great tract of the Arbutus trees, with their fresh green leaves and beautiful fruit : a fruit delicious as well as beautiful. We roamed about this lovely plantation and ate the fruit—I fear not in moderation. I can only warn those who find them- selves in a similar situation not to do likewise. It may be tempting, but it is dangerous. In appearance, as you know, it is something like a large strawberry, growing on trees instead of on lowly plants. These young plantations gave one almost the fresh and delightful feelings I have often had in Norway, where, mile after mile and day after day, you may enjoy an endless forest drive. But faithful to my first affections I do not for a moment place the beautiful but enervating land of the South into comparison with the happiness and bracing influence one enjoys under Northern skies. Arta, as we approached, looked quite striking and romantic. In this respect, I should place it almost first of all the Mallorcan towns. Like Manacor, it stands on a hill, but is more picturesque, with its Roman-looking Church and ancient Monastery. Before entering Arta, we stopped to take a photograph ; climbed the road sidebank into a garden, where the cactus flourished and the prickly pear abounded. The fruit no longer tempted us: we had suffered, and had no desire to repeat the experiment. From the house belonging to the garden there issued a fair Mallorquina, who betrayed the usual desire to be taken, and placed herself in becoming attitude. Our driver took his omnibus—of which he is proud, whatever our own opinion—down the road, and begged that we would bring it within the radius of our view. All this was satisfactorily accomplished, and I hope to enclose you a specimen in my next letter. Arta, like the famous city of Eden, was less picturesque in fact than from a distance. Familiarity bred a certain contempt. The streets were narrow ; the people seemed poor; the houses small and white. But I do not think we saw the best and most ancient part of Arta. We had no time to explore, and were almost sorry we bad —_ comicbooks.com